Sooo…I was NOT gonna post this story until I had a lot more to go on, but I feel so guilty about the prolonged writer's block that I've been going through lately that I just wanted to give you guys something of mine to tide you over until, ya know, I got to work on the five or six other open stories that I owe you guys chapters for. *clouds of gloom* I'm a bad, bad author. Writer. Whatever. You know what I mean. So then, this is a little something known as "The Supernatural-inspired Hetalian plot-bunny that got WAY TOO LONG FOR ITS OWN DAMN GOOD." So yeah…the story is going to be set in Minnesota, not because I'm an egotistical person like that (okay maybe just a little) but because A) we're a very suburban state and B) I'm familiar with the geography and sociology and weather and whatnot in these parts and am far too lazy to create or research a whole new one. If you're someone who isn't a particular fan of mine and clicked on this story because the summary sounded vaguely interesting, welcome. I have two other stories in the Hetalia fandom, one with 2ps and one without, so if you enjoy this one, feel free to check out the others. Other than that, have fun!

January 25th, 2017

There was an old woman who had three sons,
Jerry, James, and John:

Jerry was hung, James was drowned
John was lost and never found

And that was an end of the three sons
Jerry, James, and John!

3rd Person POV:

The whispers were starting again.

Alfred Foster Jones, age 19, freshman in college, closed his eyes tightly. There were bruise-colored circles underneath them, and his cheekbones stood out sharply against his sweaty skin. His nails bit into the fluffy, fat pillow that he was clutching to his chest like a five-year-old, but godamnit he felt like a five-year-old, alone in the dark and too scared to even get out of the bed, knowing that there was something out there but not knowing what or how to fight it off, knowing that it'd disappear as soon as he screamed for help or got to his parents, but unable to take that final step and actually call out.

He swallowed thickly and closed his sapphire blue eyes, trying to regulate his breathing. He ran through his facts again, trying to get his mental ducks in a row. He was gonna be a lawyer when he got out of college; facts were important and made everything make sense.

Even when no sane person could ever possibly make sense of anything this fucked up and insane-

He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. Don't think about the freaky bits. Don't think about the freaky bits. Facts. Facts.

Okay, the facts were that he was either going completely mental-institute, padded room, happy-hugjacket insane, or that something creepy and Arthur-ish was going on here.

Not that Arthur would have had anything to do with it. He was a supernatural geek, yeah, but the most Alfred had ever caught him doing was painting some kooky symbols under their beds when they were little, and stuffing weird-scented plants in the eaves when they were older, insisting that both the plants and the symbols were for protection against evil. Arthur wouldn't…wouldn't cause anything this dark and scary, on purpose or otherwise.

Besides, he hadn't been home in two years. He was busy back in his home country, trying to make a living at writing books. There was no physical or anti-physical way for Arthur to have anything to do with this.

Alfred missed him. He'd thought about calling him half a dozen times; this stuff was right up Arthur's alley. He'd probably be able to figure it all out within seconds with his freaky British deduction mojo and spooky-stuff know-how. But somehow every time his fingers would drift near the phone, he'd freeze up and move away. How the hell would he explain this? What the hell would even he say to Arthur?

"Hi, I'm feeling a little stressed out and I think there's something creepy in the house. Please spend several thousand dollars to cross the Atlantic and come back home with no warning or reason whatsoever. This is highly urgent and not at all the result of me turning into a fricking lunatic. Bye."

Yeah, that'd make Arthur real eager to come and help.

Thud.

Alfred jumped as if he'd received an electric shock, whipping his head up and frantically looking all around his room. Dark blue wallpaper, fine. Dresser, fine. Mirror over the dresser, fine. Closet door, still open. Clothes inside, fine. Door to the hallway, still open. Nightstand, fine. He pressed his nose against the pillow and tried to calm his racing heart, chanting the one of the divine Horror Movie Rules of Survival over and over again in his head.

Don't go investigate the strange noise. Don't go investigate the strange noise.

Thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-thud-

Don'tgodon'tgodon'tgodon't-

THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD-THUD!

"SHUT UP!" Alfred screamed mindlessly, clutching the pillow so hard that he could feel his heart beating against it.

Silence.

Alfred's wheezing breathes were the only sound in the entire house now; even the air conditioning was still. The silence was far more overwhelming and frightening than the thumping noises from before, and Alfred curled up even further, his sapphire blue eyes frantically roaming the room as he shakily reached out, wrapping his fingers tightly around his phone and bringing it to his chest, hunching over it like a predator bending over its prey as he stared into the freshly glowing surface.

Contacts:

Mom

Pops

Artie

Keeks

Gil-Boy

Matt Attack

Bel-Girl

His fingers hovered over the keys…

…and pulled away again.

It was probably Nothing O'Clock in British time, so Arthur wouldn't be exactly overjoyed to hear from him right now, especially about such an asinine subject. Not to mention the fact that he had an anal-retentive aversion to modern technology, so the cellphone the family had conned him into buying –which might still be the only one he owned– had a 50% chance of being forgotten and buried underneath a couch-cushion.

Kiku was almost certainly brain-dead-buried in one of his latest computer projects, and if not, busy crying his eyes out in a coffee shop –regardless of the hour– over his or others' character art. His phone was dead 90% of the time anyways, since every last one of Kiku's outlets was always in use for far more important things than a mere charger.

Gilbert and Matthew were off somewhere in the far reaches of the Boundary Waters for the rest of summer break, so good fucking luck reaching either of them. He doubted they'd even taken their phones with them, and even if they had, reception up there was a total bitch.

Bel he knew only vaguely. She was in his contacts mostly for free apple pie –like, yum!– and girlfriend-of-sibling purposes.

His parents were out on the town for the night, spending time together.

Almost against his will, Alfred's fingers began to move over the keys, sending a message addressed to his mom and dad.

"Love you both. You guys are the best parents ever."

Ding.

Message received.

He hit send and almost instantly felt a warm glow of relief spread through his chest. Things felt –tied up. Even if he was brutally Friday-the-13th-style massacred in the next five minutes, he had at least said something to an outside party.

Hahaha fuck you horror movie tropes.

But…now that he had just sent that…he felt kinda ridiculous. I mean, here he was, a grown-ish man (ish) of 19, cowering on his bed because of some weird thumping noises and whispers through the pipes. Granted, he wasn't quite ridiculous-feeling enough to get off the bed and go downstairs and investigate –it was still the number one fucking way to get killed in a horror movie!– but he was feeling ridiculous enough to maybe, possibly, tomorrow when it was bright out, go down and poke around the basement. Or wherever the hell the noises were coming from. He could be scientific about this, put motion sensors and sound recording devices everywhere. Yeah, be scientific about it. He was gonna be a lawyer, he could find smart solutions to scary problems. Arthur would be proud of him.

Quickly pulling out his journal, Alfred opened it up to the most recent blank page and started scribbling down all his ideas for tonight, before snapping it shut and chucking it inside his nightstand drawer. He still got antsy about exposing such a diary-like (and completely old-fashioned) object to the open air, even if there was no one else around.

His ears pricked up as he heard the familiar sound of his parents opening and closing the door, followed by the jingling of keys and solid footsteps. He eagerly uncurled from his little fetal ball, glancing at the clock as he did. Writing everything out by hand took a lot longer than typing; it always surprised him with how long it took to put down everything that was on his (admittedly somewhat tangential) mind.

"Yo, mom, dad, you guys have fun?" he asked loudly as he turned on the hallway light, clomping down the stairs as he tried to dispel the last threads of fear. It always went away when people were around. That was…completely natural, after all, an instinctual pack reaction enforced by centuries of tried-and-true testing. Safety in numbers and all that. Totes normal. Especially if there was nothing actually going on. Person gets scared, whether the fear is warranted or not, they feel the need to band together in a group. Yup, completely and totally normal.

He smiled at the warm, welcoming glow of the already-lit living-room lamp, which certainly hadn't been on when his parents had left the house. He could hear the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen –one of 'em was probably putting the dishes away, probably whoever hadn't paid the bill– and subconsciously brushed his hair away from his eyes, looking in the floor-length living-room mirror to do so. Despite the ever-changing layout of comfy couches and chairs (it wasn't his fault they were so damn break-able!) the mirror had always been there, as had the drawers in front of it, and the dull emerald-green carpet, and the dinky little windchime that hung above the glass door to the porch and the yard. Constants. They grounded him. His eyes swept past the front door, and then he froze.

No shoes. Mom and pop always took their shoes off when they entered the house.

The pots and pans abruptly stopped clattering.

He swallowed hard. Alfred didn't call out for his parents; that would be majorly breaking one of the most important Horror Movie Rules of Survival –don't call out for what you know wasn't there. Doing so would almost certainly render him dead in almost any horror movie imaginable, and since following the rules as if he himself was in a horror movie was working for him pretty damn well so far, he was gonna continue doing so. His eyes flicked around the room, looking for a weapon. Couldn't use the lamp, it had the light. The TV remote wouldn't frighten anything bigger than a cat. He finally grabbed the glass paperweight off of the coffee table and curled his fingers firmly around it, slowly turning around in a circle. He should put his back to the wall –that way nothing could jump-scare him from behind.

Alfred backed up against the drawer, trying to regulate his breathing. He didn't hold or slow his breath down –another blatant movie-trope invitation for a jump-scare– and he didn't close his eyes to try and calm himself. He really, really, really wanted his real parents to be home, right now. Or Artie. Or anyone, in all honesty. Anyone so he could have that faint grasp of normality, of company, of strength-in-numbers, of-

He felt cold. Really, really cold. Had the AC turned back on?

Alfred did not turn around. He knew what happened in horror movies to those who suddenly turned around after feeling cold at their backs, and he did not intend to die tonight, no sir. He readjusted his grip on the paperweight and took several steps away from the solid presence of the drawer, feeling like he was one of those Victorian duelists that Artie was always reading about.

One, two, three. About face, present arms.

Alfred clicked his heels together and turned on a dime, the paperweight coming up and flying into the –drawer. Alfred's jaw went slack as he saw the damn thing levitating, and a dark flicker of movement behind it even though there was literally nothing but the goddamned mirror and the wall, and-

WHAM.

***Time Skip***

"Alfred? Alfred, hun, we're home~!" Mrs. Cathy Jones chirped happily, swinging open the door. "We brought home some takeout, I can heat it up for you if you don't mind!"

The rest of the house was silent, and she frowned imperceptibly as her husband, one Derek Jones, came up behind her. "Alfred a no-show?" he teased lazily as he kicked off his shoes, and she bustled over to the kitchen, putting down the piece of apple pie they had saved from the diner.

"The poor boy has been bounding down to greet us every night like a frightened puppy. Maybe he's finally gotten used to being back home." she said reasonably, and Derek snorted.

"Right…" he muttered, striding into the living room and reaching down for the lamp.

Click.

"ALFRED!"

6.45 PM, USA Central Time